Poem | |
*GRANDMA WAITS IN THE GARDEN*
Hi grandpa it's me again!
Your dentures sit in an open glass
Do you remember the tears grandma sang before she passed?
The way she looked into your eyes,
Moments before she said her goodbyes
Grandpa, I found a note from grandma, she doesn't want you to cry.
Hi grandpa, it’s me again!
The rocking chair is old and dusty
Do you remember the way grandma sat me on her lap?
Read many stories before I took a nap
How she enjoyed brushing my hair with her hands
Love the way she rocked me to sleep every night until I grew.
I stored your hearing aid away
Do you remember that special musical box in grandma's drawer?
I opened it last night, to watch the ballerina dance
I wish you could hear the tiny chimes grandma lived in
I hope you don’t mind, I’m keeping grandmothers favorite scarf.
I'm caressing grandma’s picture frame
Do you like the way she looked in that pretty sundress?
Grandpa, I miss the things grandmother did for you
I like the walking stick she handcrafted, the day your needed support
It kept you in balance every time we took long hikes in the woods.
Hello grandpa, it's me again!
Here I sit holding your hand
I have no more tears
Soon you will see grandma
Please tell her hi, and I know you will be there the day I die
Give grandma a kiss, and tell her I miss her
Poem | |
I held an angel in my arms today,
A precious babe snuggled against my breast.
And my heart was overwhelmed with so much love,
As she lay contentedly at rest.
I watched her as she slept so soundly,
Gazed at her cherub face in sweet repose.
I marveled at her tiny features,
Like her perfect dainty ears and button nose.
I brushed my lips against her downy head,
Her skin like velvet to my touch.
I gave thanks to God above for His priceless blessing
Of this little angel girl I love so much.
The birth of my first grandchild has awakened,
A joy that my soul cannot contain.
From day one my heart's been stolen by her,
But you won't be hearing me complain.
for Gail Angel Doyle's "Treasures of my Soul" contest
Poem | |
The black water reflects the still morning
While monarchs flutter in the rising sun
Purple skies grow lighter without warning
Seperate rain, as rainbow colors run
Could I have seen a more beautiful sky?
Silently approaching your silhouette
My eyes well slowly in their joyous sigh
You sit alone, playing your clarinet
There's no vision or reflecting water
That warms my heart as this picture of you
A quivering heart for you, my granddaughter
As you practice in tune with a sky so blue
I am a witness to your gentleness
I feel the music your soul can express
Poem | |
To be called ..
~ Grandma is a Honor ~
I have been blessed with 4 Grandchildren
~ one lays in Heaven " Kaleb " He is God's Angel ~
~ His twin brother he will always watch over , and be in his soul~
For he loved his Brother so much in the womb ,
he chose Heaven which gave life to his twin
~ I feel his spirit when I see the other Grandson ~
Time passed another gift to see
we are " Mickes" and Loved
Our Dad held the title in Baseball
~ that's how we roll ~
those children are Grandmas hero's
The Irish they love big and Family is everything
The brothers will protect the beautiful sister
~ as many lads will be calling ~
Every time my Grandson hits a home run
There will be a Angel watching proudly in the stand
It will be as if the Angel lifted him when he runs
~no one runs faster then my Grandson~
either baseball or Art ~ you shall find your gift given
These children have been blessed~
~ a beauty to hard to describe
If you think not ~~ Take a look at the Mom
That girl can stop Traffic
after raising three and still~
"Inspired by the gift and loss of Grandchildren "
May our precious " Kaleb " softly rest where Angels only Dwell
Poem | |
Ten little toes, precious and sweet.
Connected to, chubby one year old feet.
Running across, my freshly washed floors.
Muddy footprints that start at my door.
Ten little toes, painted hot pink,
from under the hem, they peek beneath.
As she stands barefoot in her moms dress,
in the mirror, a seven year old fashion success.
Ten little toes, steps into her gown.
So happy in love, her feet don't touch the ground.
Standing there waiting, for the first note,
shoes in one hand, the other, the vows that she wrote.
Ten little toes, a miracle to see,
connected to, chubby new born feet.
Soon to be running across my floors.
A Granddaughter carried, through my front door.
For the contest "Barefoot"
Sponsored by Francine Roberts
Poem | |
Little Bee, Deaamoo, grandmother of the Crane Clan, lies staring. The light of
winter’s first full moon falls into the room. Through a ghostly haze of tobacco and
sage smoke, she sees her loved ones. One withered hand clasps a cowrie shell,
mee-ghis, tightly to her heart and in the other she holds a small dreamcatcher for
her youngest granddaughter Little Aamoo. Strands of gray white hair escape from
her braids which trail down beside her bird-frail form touching the fringe of her
parting dress. Her clan has been in the sweat lodge praying for her safe journey
home, some appear red-cheeked; others are a pale as the shades of her
ancestors. It is the end of her days, a time for passing on.
Outside of the house near the fringe of balsam pine a circle of stones are laid, each
one blessed and bringing an anchoring comfort to man, lodged between earth, and
sky. The four directions are marked and her way west is clear for her. Soon, she will
ask loved ones to lay here amongst the gifts laid for Pacugu, The Great horned Owl,
near the spirit house.
The veil is thin now between this world and the next. The smoke branches upward,
showing the way to sky world where Gichi Manidoo waits. The songs are being sung
for her now. The Shaman’s rattle is crisp and clear. All about her is beauty. Drums
keep the beat of her heart. They wait. Remembering one last story, she calls her
family to her, she must leave them with all the knowledge she has. "Ah, what was
that story? Well, that is not for you."
Poem | |
it started for me and my grandma always
on those rare but special Saturdays
the grandmother and granddaughter festival of preparations
for Sunday's after-church celebrations
the backing of the best cinnamon-sugar -cake
grandma's and my quality time to bake
we talked and shared our secrets of life
I was even allowed to use her sharpest bread knife
just the two of us throwing remaining pounce
creating our beautiful and beloved floury gowns
laughing loud with tears all over our white faces
and countless most heartfelt warm embraces
cleaning the antique black and green kitchen was another highlight
as well as the two missing slices for our well-deserved sneaky bite
grandma's great excuse: the cake broke into two
our secret two-disappearing-slices-of-cake coup
all those emptied flour sacks we could never hide
were transformed into something itchy, white and wide
I wore them always with the hugest possible smile
despite and thanks to the formless but exclusive floury white-ghosts style
PS. She did not give me 'just' h e r recipe for this great cake but also her recipe for
Poem | |
From deep recesses of my mind
I bring a great great-grandma’s face.
She left no photograph behind.
I dream her dressed in bits of lace,
Tatted perhaps by her own hand,
A talent she didn‘t leave to me.
She labored and loved and lived and left
No memories for her progeny.
I’ve traced her name, all I can do
To give her substance, make her real,
A living being who could cry
Could laugh and all emotions feel.
There was a time I could have asked
Her granddaughter of what she knew.
That chance is now forever lost
No one is left to give a clue.
Dear Grandma I lend you my pen,
Please tell about the life you led.
Be free to speak your mind through me
And say the things you would have said.
A wealth of stories left untold
And lessons from which we could have learned.
Dear Mollie Blosser, I’d then record
The place in history you have earned.
Poem | |
The old woman sews
Marking each stitch
The whirring of machines
Whirling and whirling
Round and round
Of another time
Of a night
When she was afraid
To speak to a boy
Sitting next to her.
As her busy fingers work
She remembers more
Of that summer night
A blue cotton dress
With tiny ribbons
Lace curtains gently
Pulled by a breeze
Drifted out through opaque windows
While musicians played a rhythm
Of their own
And shadows pranced
On empty walls.
Waiting that night
Why no one
Her to dance.
On silver sails
She knows that today is now.
And yesterday was yesterday
Finished with her work
She catches her breathe,
Straightens her hair,
And turns off the lights.
Pausing to look back
Into the darkened room
Shadows return her glance
With a gaping stare
Adjusting to the darkness
She begins to recognize
Familiar shapes taking form
Satisfied that all will be the same
When she returns
She closes the door.
She holds onto her purse
For a traffic light
That has already
A smile crosses her face
As she remembers
When the boy
Became her husband
Children were born.
And the years went by
In a brown bag
Neatly folded in two
Is a blue chiffon dress
Almost like the one
She wore years ago
Only this one
Is for her granddaughter
Impatient for no reason
To go nowhere
The crowd pushes forward
But the old woman lingers
On the corner
Savoring the moment
Glad of memories
As a busy world saunters by.
Poem | |
I wish I could look at a flower through your eyes
and discover why you are so fascinated by it.
I wonder why your eyes glisten
when you look at the stars,
and why you smile at the moon.
I wish I could find out what triggers you
to jump and skip, or giggle with glee
and I strain my ears to hear the silent melody
which causes you to break out in song.
I wish I could embrace someone so firmly
as you do when you jump up to greet me.
I wish I were like you when I was a child.